


Love Is Not Love

by Tibby



Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 15:17:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibby/pseuds/Tibby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike and Psmith in the story of how love does not always work a certain way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Is Not Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soupytwist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupytwist/gifts).



> I am very thankful for the kindness of Fabrisse, who gave this a last-minute beta.
> 
> The title (in case anyone was wondering) was taken from Shakespeare's Sonnet 116, which is always a handy thing for taking from when you're writing about love.

The detective venture had not been an all round success.

It had been no surprise to Mike that secretarial work hadn’t suited his good friend Psmith. What had taken him a great deal by surprise was the way he still came to heel when Psmith sauntered from a good, respectable job to some gaga scheme.

When Psmith had first told Mike that he intended to become a private eye, in that way of his that made funeral directors’ ears prick, Mike had said:

“Oh Smith. Don’t be an ass.”

To which Psmith had sombrely replied:

“Your words strike my heart, Comrade Jackson. It is a peculiar way you have, of wounding a man with only a few well-chosen syllables. I beg you to save them for those many persons who deserve your stern disapprobation. All I ask is what is natural: that I have my Watson, my Bunter, my- whatever cove Monsieur Poirot spends his working hours with…”

Surrender, in the end, hadn’t been such a hardship. In his heart of hearts, Mike had known he wanted to follow Psmith wherever and whenever he was asked. Psmith was right - it was the natural way of things. The one, significant problem was that Mike had responsibilities - a new development in the course of their friendship. He had a farm to manage. Phyllis did very well looking after the place but, for one thing, it was completely unfair to leave her to do so alone, and for another, some farm work could be difficult for a person not much over five feet. Psmith had offered Eve as a kind of Jackson replacement. However, Eve had, in reply, sent a telegram from Blandings stating that Psmith had no right to speak for his fiancée and disregard said fiancée’s commitments (adding that they were to give her love to Phyllis).

Despite all this, Mike joined Psmith on the train to London the next day. With the stipulation, of course, that Psmith would return him to Phyllis within the week and, thereafter, Mike would be called upon to help solve crimes only when absolutely necessary.

Mike was back within the week as promised - and so was Psmith, as it happened. They had discovered that times were hard for the private eye. An impromptu tiddlywinks tournament at the Drones Club had provided some employment, but once bets were settled and they’d solved the mystery of who owed Oofy Prosser a fiver, work quickly dried up. They’d stuck around the metropolis in the hope of a suspicious death. Fortune, however, proved to have put her feet up and told the housemaid she was at home to no one. Three days after tracking down a dear old lady’s parakeet to the back of a cab on the Euston Road, they gave in. As Psmith so succinctly put it:

“It was wrong of us to tussle with destiny. It is now clear for us to see that farm life has claimed you for its own and no other existence will do. Though my heart sinks at the thought of dissolving this business we nurtured together, I do not think we have a choice. Listen to the wind that blows in from the green, distant hills, Comrade Jackson. It whispers your name. And so I must return you to your agricultural calling.”

By that evening, they were sitting in the Jacksons’ parlour. Psmith was pouring the tea and remarking to Phyllis that she had worked miracles on the rustic décor. Mike was meanwhile being thoroughly welcomed home by his dogs.

“I am sure,” said Psmith, “That between each of my visits, you find a new canine chum. I see five of the specimens clamouring to get a piece of the action Comrade Jackson provides, yet there were four mere days ago. Are they secreted about the house or do they come like pilgrims?”

Phyllis giggled, only a little self-consciously, “Mike brought the fifth one home a few months ago. A family in the village were moving house and they couldn’t take it with them.”

A slow-moving, elderly bulldog tore himself away from Mike’s ankle and waddled over to Psmith. The animal then gave Psmith’s leg an affectionate head-butt and, seeing that his work had been well done, collapsed into a doze. Psmith was well acquainted with the dog in question. His first visit to Mike Jackson’s family home had begun with an introduction to John the bulldog.

“Good old John,” Mike beamed, heaving the dog up into his arms, “You like it when Smith comes to stay.”

Psmith gazed gravely up at Mike and John. He looked sorrowfully towards Phyllis.

“It gives me great pain to disappoint the seven Jacksons,” he murmured, “But my little woman is waiting for me at Blandings. I would send for her immediately, but you have already been given evidence of her unwholesome devotion to labour. I am as fond of work as the next man and still I feel that Miss Halliday takes more than her fair share.”

“Eve’s wonderfully conscientious like that,” said Phyllis brightly.

“Conscientious, yes,” Psmith concurred, “But at what expense, dear Mrs. Jackson? At what expense?”

Phyllis was not sure what the proper answer to this could be. Fortunate, then, that Psmith left little room for any sort of response. He continued:

“It is a great displeasure to leave you, but leave I must. I have just one request before I journey on.”

“Yes?”

“Eve and I are to have a winter wedding. The church is booked, the vicar is collared, the turtle doves are put on ice. There are very few preparations left, and I am about to dispense with another. In short, I know only one man fit for the title of Best.”

“Smith, are you asking me to be your groomsman?” asked Mike, thinking it best to clarify the situation.

“I am, Comrade Jackson.”

“Well, good,” said Mike.

 

The stag party at the Red Lion was far better than Mike had hoped. He drank enough but not too much, in the hope that his head would ache a proportionately little amount the next morning. He’d invited the local cricket team and their old school friend, Jellicoe. Psmith had done his share by inviting a random assortment of people, none of whom were familiar to Mike. Two bank clerks, a veterinary surgeon, a gossip columnist and his friend, a curate-turned-society-portraitist, and a very glum looking cove of independent means named Freddie Threepwood.

There was a lot of talking and more than a little drinking. There were also two or three games of cards. They, however, stopped when Freddie Threepwood declared that black jack was an idiotic game and started to take bets on which nearby trees he could climb. When the group finally said their goodnights at one in the morning, they left him in the tree he’d finally fallen asleep in.

That is to say, once most had said their goodnights. Psmith was staying with Mike, while Phyllis and Eve were stopping over with friends - presumably they were, at that very moment, having larks of their own. Goodnights for these two pairs were unnecessary. But Psmith didn’t seem to be saying anything at all. Though Mike liked ambling along quietly, he was a little concerned.

“Anything the matter?” he asked.

Psmith made a very uncharacteristic hum through pursed lips. He was quiet a while longer. For a moment he looked as though he were about to speak but didn’t. Then, finally, when the first glimpse of the Jacksons’ farmhouse came into view, he said, “I was wondering if it would be all right to kiss you…”

 

The evening was, all in all, a very pleasant one indeed. 

 

“Time to get up.”

Psmith rolled onto his back, rubbing against Mike’s bare stomach as he did so. Mike had reached over to turn on the bedside lamp and, rather than face the unwelcome task of retreating to his side of the bed, had decided to slump over Psmith. Psmith patted Mike’s back as an expression of approval. Then he took up his monocle and winced at the alarm clock.

“On the day of a wedding,” he mused, “I presume there is a customary hour at which the vicar fires the starting pistol?”

Mike gave a sleepy snuffle of laughter. “I’ve never heard of that, but I can tell you your wedding starts at ten.”

“Very astute, Comrade Jackson, very astute. You’re a fine example of groomsmankind.”

“It’s a quarter past nine,” Mike added.

“Again, you have hit the figurative bull’s-eye and may claim the figurative prize of your choice.”

Mike knew he had to move. But it was so pleasant to be still, to merely watch and feel and listen in a drowsy sort of joy. His view was of the top order. Just above Psmith’s fidgeting toes and the rails of the brass bedstead, frost had worked its artistry on the window panes. If he were to move, he would trace the sharply etched patterns there and write his name in the misted glass. He tried to use this thought as an incentive to get up. He found it was not so compelling as it had been when he was a child.

Mike pushed down the sheets to let the cold urge him out of bed. It was Smith’s wedding day, he reminded himself. The thought made him want to roll up in the bedclothes and suffocate in them. He told himself not to be such a damned fool. It was Smith’s wedding day.

In the end, he lay still and watched Psmith get up, move to the washstand and stare blankly into the porcelain bowl.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” said Mike. After a moment or two he even managed to get out of bed to do it.

 

Mike had lit a fire in the grate and shut all the doors and windows he could, and yet the room remained arctic in character. He felt as though the recently warm water was freezing onto his body. Psmith was attempting to put on a shirt - something that seemed to require a great deal more talent than it ever had before.

“I believe I am developing frostbite,” Psmith remarked placidly.

Mike hopped over and took Psmith’s hands in his own. If anything, this made them colder. Mike tried to button Psmith’s shirt for him instead.

“You’ve been quiet this morning,” Mike remarked.

Mike finished buttoning without receiving any reply from Psmith. He stood back, hesitant, wondering whether to ask directly or to keep silent.

“Something on your mind? Something about the wedding?”

Psmith focused on his socks and trousers, giving only a barely perceptible nod of the head.

“Me too,” said Mike, trying to be cheerful, “Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

Psmith looked almost fretful. Much like the night before, he opened his mouth as if about to speak then promptly closed it again. The previous night, Mike had considered the sight rarer than hen’s teeth. Now it seemed about as unique as new socks at Christmas.

Mike put a tie around Psmith’s neck.

“You didn’t seem to mind when I married Phyllis.”

“I didn’t,” said Psmith, “Phyllis is one of the sweetest women of my acquaintance. Angels would kick her shins in pure jealousy,” a pause, and then, “Yet, to be quite honest with you, I always suspected it would be easier to share your affections with someone else than to divide my own. I find myself in a challenging moral situation. A question of possibilities, almost. Am I right to marry a woman I love when I have no intention of ceasing to love someone else?”

Mike smiled despite his best intentions. He began to knot the tie.

“If you don’t mind, Smith, I’m going to forget all that stuff about morals. It just came to me, when I was getting married, that there was no other possibility than to love two people. I suppose for some people love is straightforward and only a matter of proposing to one girl and being with her all your life. But I’m not so sure that anyone should worry if that’s not the case for them. There’s not a great deal one can do about it. And besides, love’s not something you can do badly, is it?”

As Mike straightened Psmith’s collar, Psmith caught hold of his hand and pulled Mike down beside him on the bed.

“Are you ready to get married now?”

“Lead on, Comrade Jackson, lead on.”

 

Whilst watching the congregation find their seats, Mike caught a glimpse of ivory at the chapel doors. There was Eve, still, though he was too far away to see, glistening with fresh snow and the few odd pearls in her hair. He saw her let go of Phyllis’ hand as the organist struck the keys.


End file.
